


This place

by kate_the_reader



Series: The season [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: 31 Days of Ineffables Advent Calendar Challenge 2019 (Good Omens), Ficlet, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:09:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21823450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kate_the_reader/pseuds/kate_the_reader
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley weather a storm
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: The season [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564690
Comments: 4
Kudos: 26





	This place

“Terrible weather coming.” The warning is repeated several times by people they meet in the village. “Snow,” they are told. “Gales.” 

“Better stock up, don’t want to run out; you might be stuck at home.”

How bad can it be, really? Snow? Ice? 

Aziraphale remembers those terrible hard winters in the 1400s, the 1600s, the 1700s. Winters when the rivers froze hard, for weeks. Frost fairs on the Thames. Winters when no one could get warm enough, even those with homes, and furs to sink into, and there were many, so many, with too little, or nothing.

Crowley doesn’t remember, he slept through many of the worst, or he went somewhere warm when the cold threatened to sink right into his bones, lock his muscles rigid.

So they buy an extra pint of milk, another loaf of bread.

“Keep safe,” they say, “be warm.” And they retreat to their cottage before the storm comes.

The gales are different, out here on the Downs, where the sky is bigger, the land is open. The snow piles high against the walls, and ice clatters against the windows, like a handful of thrown gravel.

Aziraphale turns up the heating and stokes the stove; not an open fire, Crowley is not ready for that.

The house is warm, and their bed is warmer. They burrow under the covers and Aziraphale holds Crowley, keeps him warm, guards his angles, watches over him while he sleeps, and when he wakes, still drowsy, and says: “Angel, you’re still here,” with a mouth that hardly works, and falls under sleep’s pull again.

When the gales stop, and the clouds roll away and the sun shines from an impossibly blue sky they emerge, and wrap up warm and venture out.

Everything is ablaze, every ice crystal a tiny cold dazzling fire.

“I’ve never …” says Crowley, “Never seen it like this.”

Aziraphale holds his gloved hand tight, tight, warm in his.

“Shall we?” he asks, “A walk?”

Crowley looks at the garden, hidden under snow; there’s no path, just places were the snow is less deep. “Um,” he says, doubtful, until Aziraphale clears the way and they walk to the gate, and Aziraphale clears a new path and they climb to the top of the rise and look out across the land, this place where they live now, all the way to the sea.

_ Prompt:  ice storm _


End file.
